


vice

by ixofswords



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: M/M, ive been reading murakami, weird music stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 05:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18866350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ixofswords/pseuds/ixofswords
Summary: murakami + tartt = this?





	vice

Days are long and nights are short nowadays, though it is winter. 

Richard seems to always come back from the record shops with something I have never heard of. It’s all contemporary. I have stacks of piano, vocal, and orchestral albums, but none of them seem to please him. Neither Bach nor Katchaturian can placate that carnal need for him, the base desire for sound. It was some rock record today, and a new one, rather than the older swing and soul he usually would find digging in crates. I didn’t care for what the group was called, but I liked it when he sat it on the player. 

There’s nothing like the fuzzy sound of a needle on vinyl, not in the sense that it is perfect, but that I have never been able to find a sound similar. The album itself had that warmth, too. It probably would have kept it through the coldness of a CD. 

Richard likes to dance much more than I care to. I learned once how to waltz to impress a boy in high school, star of the musical; we danced after the play, he laughed it off and told me he had a date with his girlfriend. 

He dances like a club kid, the kind of dancing you do with coke still around your nose that you missed in the dark bathroom. All that type of dancing seems to be is just mimicking sexual acts, which I don’t mind at all. Usually, I mind the music when it’s the more recent stuff. The heavy, monotone beats do nothing for me, except for when they make him want to crawl on me and fuck me with that same intensity. While Schumann and Liszt draw me to drape my arm around his waist, he wants to grind to something I could never begin to understand. It adds a layer of mystery, of intrigue. But he likes to get drugged up to dance. He doesn’t need it, but I think he doesn’t feel right without it. His mind would be so clouded that I couldn’t feel right making love to him in that state. I did realize embarrassingly realize one day, though, that the way he smokes arouses me. I asked him to exhale it into my mouth as we kissed, and from then on that was the only drug I deemed acceptable in our bed. 

There’s a gap on my skin when he isn’t here. It’s an emptiness, where I feel like a vessel without its contents. Both metaphorically and physically he fills me, and when he isn’t around my body feels unusually light. Not in the usual freeing sense, as a weight being lifted, but as if I am floating. I’ve tried to tell myself such dependency is not healthy, but to no avail. 

He grounds my body and tethers it back to Earth.

Last night when he came back from work, I didn’t even give him time to take his coat off. I pressed him against the door, guiding his hands to my head, and whispered to him:

“ν ῦ ν”

He plead me to let go only to put on a record. I have no idea what it was called, some sort of strange rock and swing mix. But he found his rhythm and his body naturally found the tune. It was in 6/8, swinging the 16ths so strongly I could feel them in my chest. Richard looked nearly hypnotized by the sound, taking his coat off, loosening his tie in time. I helped him unbotton his shirt, kissing down his neck down to his collar. I tried to keep in rhythm, but he knew this song intuitively, and I did not. If it had been the Slavonic March, I could have swayed him into bed by the violins, but I just had to follow his lead. He is no conductor, but I could keep up with the signals. Hand there, push up  closer in two and a half beats. How strangely mathematical it made music and our love. 

An improvisational verse came in, with tuba and sax under a sultry alto voice. It was something French, the other parts, but the da de das were without a mother tongue. 

“I love dancing as much as anyone else, but shall we get on with this?”

I told him I thought he would never ask.


End file.
